


Bruce Wayne

by writingtheworks



Series: the c in DC stands for "cringey" [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Multi, Reader Insert, enjoy ;), sorta old and sorta cringey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingtheworks/pseuds/writingtheworks
Summary: Bruce fics from my reader insert Tumblr days. Enjoy!





	1. Pinkened Water

He is wordless. Not in the kind of way where he has nothing to voice, nothing to comment on or even grunt out in response. Bruce is wordless in the way where he is brimming with words, words that will begin arguments and words that will end them, desperately trying to drink them down before they overfill him and spill out.

Alfred is absent for a number of reasons, but the main one relating to Bruce being an ass, Alfred worrying about him, and then Bruce continuing to be an ass. So the butler jumped at the chance for a fortnight’s vacation at your imploring. That left you with a few scratches and bruises to repair (Jason making lunch after you gave him 30 bucks. Damn, that boy can cook), and another argument arising with Bruce Wayne. **  
**

The marks on his flesh are _horrendous_ and  _jagged_ and  _everywhere_. When you run your hand down his back your skin molds around rough and uneven marks, and some are as old as his nightlife, others from yesterday evening. Tonight’s issues are just that… issues. It had become more and more common for Bruce to come home bleeding and clutching an open injury, but tonight’s patrol had gifted him with something special. Or rather, it was trying to gift it to you, if Bruce hadn’t jumped in the way.

Surprises weren’t uncommon, and that’s why Bruce carried an entire arsenal with him wherever he went. The utility belt was stocked with all sorts of tools and weaponry, but not even it can prepare for things something an insane mind could produce. All he can do is improvise. So when a goddamn  _harpoon_ is shot at your heart, he shoves you out of pain’s path and comes out with a giant piece of shrapnel lodged in his shoulder. It had taken Dick and Jason’s combined strength to pull it free, and then an hour of cleaning and stitching on your part to repair it. X-rays came somewhere in between. Somehow, he was lucky enough to retain the use of his arm (after it healed anyway), even if it was dislocated.

Now, you dipped a wet towel in pink water dyed by blood, steadying Bruce’s back by holding his good shoulder.”This might sting,” You warned him, softly. But then you realized that was stupid, because he had practically bled out on the cave’s stalagmites after having a  _harpoon_ pulled from his skin. Not to mention the process of relocating his shoulder.

You gently wet the longest scar on his skin, wondering just why Bruce hadn’t asked for Arthur’s assistance with dealing with the rogue Atlanteans that had invaded Gotham City. But your mind must be muddled from its over-activeness during patrol—Bruce Wayne is… Bruce Wayne. Of course he wouldn’t ask for help.

Bruce doesn’t even tense. You’re unsure if his eyes or closed or not, but his head is hung and his hands are keeping him upright on the temporary operating table. You continued to clean the cut, debating if you should speak yet. Bruce, surprisingly, comments first.

“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for.” He clipped.

You shake your head and sighed. "Who said I wanted that? As much as I dislike it when you put your life before my own—you did save my life… If anything, I’m sorry for not paying attention and avoiding it in time.”

“Good.” Bruce declares, only mildly surprised by your confession. He’s so accustomed to  _arguing._ With his children, Alfred, even with himself. Maybe that’s how you’ve managed to not grow tired and agitated with him yet; you happened to be very good at avoiding disagreements to your liking, especially ones involving Bruce. His shoulders tense and relax in a battle that’s fought intensely for someone so attuned to the battlefield. "Because I would do it again. And again. I always will.” Bruce promises. And he’s certainly a man of his word.

He only has seconds to review what he has said, but he dictates it as coming off too rough, especially if you are healing him. Bruce sighs, adding softly, "But it’s… you don’t have to apologize.”

Bruce hears the rag gently hit the surface of the cleaning water, and he watches it sink as you wrap your arms around him. You rest your cheek against his good but still marred shoulder, your lips brushing the coarse skin. "You’re still hurt. And I know that apologizing doesn’t change anything, but it’s still my fault, so I’m going to change. I’ll get better. I’ll pay more attention.”

Bruce’s fingers comb over yours. It settles over your arm protectively, and there’s a pause where you fight over who’s leaning on who, but Bruce wins as he is the injured one. You feel him relax under your hands, "Everyone makes mistakes, Y/N. That’s why we work together. That’s why I’m there, that’s why you and the others are there. So we can help each other with our mistakes.”

You smirk, "Hold on—can you just repeat everything you just said into my phone? Because that was basically an  _“I need you”_  confession and Jason won’t believe me unless I have evidence—”

Bruce scoffed, causing you to break into laughter, your body shaking with mirth against his still one. The sound is more than just welcome. Bruce finds the pain fading to the outskirts of his attention, where you are drawn to the center of his universe as you always seem to be. He used to call you a  _distraction_. When he said or thought the word he’d spit it with an unrivaled bitterness. He couldn’t be distracted, not from his job, his mission. Now, Bruce Wayne realizes and corrects his error; sometimes, distractions are needed to keep moving. Even if that distraction is a harpoon to the shoulder or beautiful laughter. Beautiful, beautiful laughter.


	2. Over Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely he couldn't have forgotten, right?

> _**19 Years Ago** _

You try to silence it, even if that doesn’t make sense. No one is around to hear you. No one wants to hear you, frankly, but regardless you muffle your sobs with your hands and don’t retract them. It’s almost childish; you didn’t have to cry. They forgot your birthday. So what? A simple mistake that you could have made too. But it’s not like you hadn’t been buzzing about it for weeks. You were sixteen now, and you’d be getting your license soon. Not to mention it would mean that you and Bruce would be dating for an entire year.

Bruce Wayne had been a special case, an exception for almost everything within your life. You didn’t show anyone that you weren’t always your bubbly self (but for Bruce, who you had cried and mourned with), you were never vulnerable and insecure (unless you finally gave in and showed Bruce just how you were feeling), and you certainly would  _never_ find love—but for Bruce Wayne. And yet even after all you’d given and shown him, he couldn’t remember it was your birthday. Simple mistake… right?

You released a shuddering sigh into your knuckle, which you had bitten to silence yourself. But then your insecurities bubbled to life and began to feed off your source of sadness and enrichen it. Tiredly, you swept a lock of hair from your eyes and, just for a moment, let them consume you.

Bruce Wayne was everything; kind, righteous, (stupidly) brave, intelligent and stubbornly determined. He was a lover of the world regardless of when he got angry, regardless of when he said things he didn’t mean and let his rage cloud him. He donated his time and his life to do the right thing, and he was just sixteen. The world had never, ever been kind to him even if he had shown it so much generosity; it stole his parents from him, bathed his heart in tragedy and drowned him in it, then granted him a curse that would eventually he would abandon… you.

You weren’t as pretty as certain angles suggested. There would always be someone better in Bruce’s life that you’d pray he’d choose over you. He deserved someone better, like the independent and confident Selina Kyle, or the beautiful Silver Saintcloud. Someone who wasn’t you.

The wind roars through the distant trees surrounding the Manor’s property, playing the branches like an enraged flutist would with their instrument. You draw your attention to the sounds of the breeze, to the world around you, and are pulled from the depths of your own misery and into the cold reality. But it becomes warmer as something slips around your shoulders.

“There you are,” Bruce greets. He places his jacket over your shoulders without your request, and as warmth envelopes you so does his scent of fine leather, expensive cologne and something else that takes a moment to recognize—something almost odorless, but distinctly  _damp_ , so you conclude he’d been down in the cave. Oh, so that’s where he’d been off to.

“Alfred said he thought you were in my room. What are you doing out—?” That is when Bruce catches your tear-caused hitch of breath, and then the stuttering exhale that follows. He connects the dots in moments, gently taking you by the shoulders and turning you to face him. When he see’s that you are crying he instantly seats himself on the porch-stair. There, he attempts to reach out and wipe one away, but his hand retracts as a result of his own fear of making you uncomfortable,”Are you… crying?”

“No.” You try and joke because you are obviously weeping, but your humor diminishes long before you even begin to speak. Bruce watches, confused and apprehensive as you swipe at your own tears, and once more his hand reaches out to touch you. Instead of aiding in your battle with your teardrops, his fingers smooth over your knee and study the emotion showing on your face. He feel’s misery’s thick roots plant in his mind at your sadness.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked. You only shook your head and released another fractured sigh, one that made his frown deepen and his touch take action. Slowly, his fingers curved with the shape of your back, pulling you into his side and continuing his affections. Knowing better than anyone that you probably didn’t want to speak of why, Bruce added,”You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I will listen if you do.”

You tried not to smile, and when you did it swiftly faded. Your reaction time was so slowed you had only now noticed you had fallen against his shoulder, your cheek on his sweater-covered collarbone and your brow resting lightly against his jaw. You pulled back a little and questioned,”Do you know what day it is today?”

“Yes. It is [birth date]. Why?” Bruce questioned calmly. He had no idea. No idea at all. Your stomach churns in response.

“Bruce,” You sighed miserably,”Today is my birthday. Today is my birthday and no one remembered.”

Bruce’s expression contorts. His frown tightens and his brows furrow deeply, half like he’s trying to keep it on his face, and half because he’s distraught. He conflicts over something, withholding a deep breath as he considers whatever had taken up that steadily expanding mind of his. You stare at him numbly and feel your bottom lip quiver when his hand slips off your back. Bruce sighs, turning to dig through his coat pocket. Your frown deepens questionably—when he raises his gaze to meet yours once more, he is  _smiling_ , and brilliantly so.

“Alfred is going to kill me for doing this,” Bruce deposits a small box into your lap.”But I did remember. How could I ever forget?”

“I—what?” You inquired. Bruce simply gestures to the present encouragingly. Heat conquers your face, painting your cold-chilled ruby nose and cheeks impossibly more scarlet. It is taking too long for the gears to turn in your mind, so your hands do most of the work for you. Your thumb smooths its way down the squeaky wrapping paper, which coats the palm-sized box in which you carry. Your fingers twist the edges of the (color) bow it is sealed with, finding a simple, card-stock note between the ribbon’s folds. You glance at Bruce once before you read it. His smile is widening in the stupid  _I-know-something-that-you-don’t_  way that infuriated you, and he whispers,”Happy Birthday, my sweet girl.”

The card echoes his words;  _Happy Birthday, Y/N_ , it reads in his tall, fluid cursive,  _Yours always, Bruce Wayne._

With another glance to your boyfriend out of the corner of your eye, you see his foot eagerly bouncing (as he tries to reign it in), and his eyes caught intently on the box in your hands. To ease your shared stress, you free the ribbon by its ear, the silk pooling in your hands. You wipe away another stray tear and giddily realize there had been no need to cry at all. As per usual, Bruce had been the devoted young man he promised he be.

“I wanted to get you something meaningful,” Bruce begins. You inched the lid from the caramel colored box, left unlabeled with nothing to hint at its contents. Bruce pulls his slipping sweater higher on your shoulders. And then you are staring down at a beautiful golden necklace,  _Bruce_ written in his own handwriting and working as the chain’s only charm. You lift it from the box with careful hands; the chain feels almost like the silk bow, and the necklace is so clean you can see your own distorted reflection within it. Bruce finishes,”So I figured you should have my first name while you wait to have my last.”

“Oh, Bruce.” You whisper, tearing your gaze from his gift and to him. Your cheeks flare not only with the sentiment, but with the promise of you receiving his last name. And there’s only one way to do that…

“Alfred and I were going to make dinner, and then I’d give it to you before you went to bed,” Bruce confessed. You bind your arms around him and breath in another shaky, broken breath that’s accompanied by a chorus of tears—but these ones are out of joy, and the way he can tell is by the large grin pressing into his neck. He doesn’t hesitate to press you deeper into him.

You lifted the necklace into view once more, shyly gesturing to your neck,”Could you…?”

Bruce doesn’t hesitate to unlock the chain, reach his arms around your shoulders and clip it into place. Your faces come close when he does this. Before he has the chance to kiss you, you duck down and stare at the gift in awe. Your eyes return to his, still watering.

“Thank you.” You whispered earnestly,”For this. For not forgetting. For always… being. Here. With me.”

“You’re welcome.” He splayed his hand at the bend between your shoulder and neck, where his name now rests on a sparkling golden chain. Bruce glances down at your lips once, then twice, then three times, and you both snicker as you pull him into a deep kiss.

Somewhere in between kissing and returning inside does Bruce promise,”I will always be here with you.” And he is.

_

“You come out here whenever you’re sad,” Bruce says. You hear his boots squeal against the porch’s wooden decking, and then you feel the aging stairs bending with his weight. The air is not nearly as chilly as Bruce pretends it is. Regardless, you find a thick, black wool sweater pulled around your shoulders. Your comfort and warmth always seems to be his first priority, and the thought makes your thoughtful smile turn into something sweeter. ”So I hope that you aren’t upset.”

You shake your head lightly, pulling your left hand into your chest as he sits down, hiding it in the depths of his coat and holding it to your heart. It is instinct to lean into his side, and it is instinct for Bruce to welcome you into his embrace. You feel his large palm smooth down your back as you laid your head on his sweater-protected collarbone. Some things never change.

“It’s funny you say that, because I’m feeling the exact opposite.” When you look up at your Bruce, your eyes are shining. You smile, ”In fact, I feel like the happiest person on Earth.”

Bruce lowers his face so your noses are closer. When his fingers smooth down your spine again, there is a hard metal accompanying it. A ring. He hums, ”Second happiest.” Bruce pressed a kiss to the space under your eye and beside your nose, ”I’m the happiest.”

“And why is that?” You wondered, planting your hand on his chest.

Bruce plays with the rusted metal around your neck, tracing the loops of his own name, ”Because you’re not going to need this anymore.”

You protectively clutched the necklace. Nostalgia washes over you like the wind bathes the trees, just as they had when you first got the treasured jewelry. You smiled, ”I’m still keeping it. I’ve got your first name and your last name now.” You wiggled the ring on your finger against his jaw, and Bruce snickered.  _Snickered_.

“You want everything I’ve got, don’t you?” Bruce asked playfully.

“Yep. And I’m going after your money next.” You joked, cracking a grin. Bruce shook his head when you began to laugh. You covered your mouth and giggled into his side, which made the smile ease back onto his face. Your laughter fades gradually, pressing out with a breath of contentment, something that never seems to stay for too long with how your lives are now. Bruce lays his hand on your knee and husks into your ear, “I know one more thing I could give you…”

You swatted at his arm to distract from your reddening face, but Bruce always seemed to know. He smiled against your lips, and you both melt into the kiss, until he’s lost the playboy attitude and you’ve both become teenagers again. Not like you weren’t acting like that prior to such a kiss.

You are forced to break apart when the porch door shrieks open so harshly the glass wobbles, and then the spell is broken and screaming erupts in the yard. Jason bounds onto the porch, leaps over a table, rolls to the ground and leaps over you and Bruce. You watch, bewildered as Jason dashes straight for the woods. His cackling echoes with a startling clarity that reminds of the rambunctious little boy you used to dance within the living room.

Damian stomps through the doorway and performs a similar—but angrier—version of Jason’s maneuvers. The only exception being that the boy is caked in what appears to be either whip or shaving cream, either one making him appear to be a very short, very enraged Santa Claus. He roars an insult in Arabic that makes Bruce’s expression tighten. Your husband stands to break up the argument, and his pace quickens when Damian picks up a very sharp stick and advances on Jason. You watch in confused amusement as Bruce tries to solve the problem. Somewhere in between the mess, the stick is thrown across the lawn like a javelin, heading straight for you.

Cassandra darts out of nowhere and plucks the branch from the air like it wasn’t just a bullet about to kill you. She gives you a sweet smile before she breaks the (fairly thick) branch over her knee. Silently, she offers one to Dick and then the other to Tim, then wags her fingers in a  _roll out_  gesture. The three join Bruce in defending Jason, who is shaking with laughter as Damian attempts to murder him.

You sigh. "Back to the daily grind, then.”


	3. Belated Birthday Barfight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a birthday gala begins to suffocate you with social anxiety, Bruce decides that taking a night off—from Batman, from The Waynes, or the most powerful couple in Gotham City—is a perfect birthday gift.

“Well then. I wish you the happiest of birthdays, Mx. Wayne.  Good evening.” Professor Basina—an associate of your husband’s, who had been one of many to attend your birthday gala at Wayne Manor—ducked his head to bid you farewell, before weaving back into the crowd of bubbly partygoers. You tried your best not to sound awkward when you shyly returned, "Thank you, Professor. Have a good evening.”

Wayne Manor’s small ballroom was strewn about with your favorite colors, favorite foods, favorite  _everything_. The marble flooring gleamed so beautifully you could see your own reflection its milky veins, and the chandelier above you watched on like a crystalline stalactite protector. But despite the rooms bustling beauty it felt like everything was watching you. You swore the women in their designer dresses were whispering behind their hands as they judged you, while the light reflecting on the tiles glared at you, and the room’s walls seemed to be advancing closer with every breath.

As soon as he was gone, you saw your chance and snatched it greedily. With few or no eyes on the birthday [boy/girl] you could finally catch your breath. Slipping behind one of the pillars that supported the gallery above the main staircase, you easily slipped behind the cracked bathroom door and locked it shut behind you. The chatter and the volume all silenced with the door now shut. Silence and the way it cleansed you of your social anxiety was truly a gift.

With a great sigh, you dropped down onto the closed toilet seat and placed your head in your hands. You had told Bruce  _at least_ a thousand times you didn’t want a public birthday party. Of course, you were grateful to be having one at all, but there’s nothing wrong in preferring to be at the head of a table cluttered with your family, rather than people only Bruce barely knew. The banquet table laid heavy with gifts was amazing and exciting, but at the same time you knew only a few of those gifts were heartfelt.

Alfred had your back, at least. He arranged for your close friends and family to be invited, but a good majority had now left since it was later in the evening.

In all fairness, it wasn’t just Alfred that recognized your fear of large crowds and awkward silences. Dick followed you around for the first hour of the party in order to “save you”, and when you finally laughed and insisted his freedom, he hugged you tightly and assured no one would dare make you uncomfortable on your birthday. ("Not on my watch.”). Damian had made sure to do the same, but from a few feet behind. He thought he was being sneaky by leaping behind guests and hiding behind furniture when you glanced over your shoulder, but you smiled everytime you caught sight of him in the crowd. Jason couldn’t be out in public officially as he was legally dead, and Tim had a Titans mission to take care of—but both had left you birthday wishes, and among the gift pile you could see two labels with their names.

“Mx. Y/N,” Alfred chimed from the other side of the door. His knuckles wrapped once upon the wood. ”Are you alright?”

“Fine, Alf!” You assured in a rushed manner. Without hesitation you got to work on checking yourself in the mirror; it seems your little break was over. Brushing hair out of your face and smoothing down your birthday attire, you unlocked the door and peeked through the opening at the Wayne’s beloved family friend.

“Just taking a breather, no need to worry,” You flashed an unconvincing smile. Alfred offered a softer one in response, and then glanced about the rest of the room suspiciously before he deposited a load of clothing into your arms, ”Well, fear not, for your “breather” is to be prolonged. Master Bruce is pulling the car ‘round. I suggest you change there.”

“What?” You questioned. Alfred only shook his head, nodding towards the nearest exit of the ballroom and searching the stairs for something. When Dick appeared, a glass of champagne in hand he said, ”Go. It seems Master Richard is performing a distraction.”

You heard Dick call the attention of the room, and soon Damian was dragging you by the wrist into the driveway. The garage door shut just as he shushed you for asking questions. Car lights cast shadows along the length of the pavement and the lacey greenery, and the motor of it grumbled, frustrated with hit’s return from hibernation. You found the source to be Bruce’s— _second—_ favorite car, a Lamborghini;  the Murciélagos, with it’s sleek and curvy grey body coming to life in the dark.

You found yourself being shoved into the passengers seat, and when you turned to question the boy you were happy to call your son, Damian was gone.

“Are you alright?” Bruce greeted. You had to double-take when looking at him. Seeing your husband in suits was always a sight to behold, so the “street garb” he now wore was something you had to adjust to. Upon examining the clothes Alfred had supplied, you found it was all true civilian wear, things you could use to blend into any normal street in Gotham City.

“Fine,” You said for the hundredth time, ”But what is this? Do we have an emergency undercover mission or something?”

“No,” Bruce laughed. He laid his hand atop yours in the center console, a brief expression of guilt crossing his angular face. It was gone the next moment. ”I just… I know how much you hate public parties. So I thought you’d like it if we were normal for a night.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m still super lost. What do you mean “normal”, Bruce?”

“I’m taking you to a bar. And not as Bruce and Y/N Wayne, the most powerful couple in Gotham, but as two nobodies who love each other,” Bruce shrugged. He pulled the car out of park, and you couldn’t help the smile on your face as the car roared past Wayne Manor’s gates, Bruce’s hand settled lightly on your thigh.

_

The bar’s side door slammed shut behind the both of you. At the sound of police sirens Bruce laughed a curse, and together you grabbed each others hands and dove behind a car in the alleyway beside the bar.

“I can’t believe you,” Bruce said with a smile. You shushed him when a car door slammed, and two policemen flew from their cruiser. One swerved for the alleyway and the other ran into the building. The one looked over the alleyway without actually checking, before exclaiming, ”All clear!” Then, he sprinted into the bar and after his partner. You couldn’t help but join Bruce in soft, exhilarated laughter, but only because you knew what both officers would discover; a bar riddled with unconscious bikers, all of which had ganged up on you after they heard you comment on them disrespecting a woman.

“They were harassing her,” You panted. "She needed my help.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Bruce laughed. The sound was low and gravelly, but still warm all the same. ”You hit one of them over the head with a chair. Struck another down with a pool cue. We took all of them out in under a minute, and you… you looked…”

You laid your hand on his cheek, watching the memories flicker behind his pupils as the neon sign from across the street hit them. Bruce lost his train of thought somewhere in between. That bar fight was very different from patrol; you and Bruce were often seperated to cover the whole city, but working together…

You can still feel his back rising and falling against your own, staring down at least eight other guys, just the two of you against the world. Bruce throws a man, you kick him into the bar. You roll over his back to kick another against the booth. Bruce throws his final blow in the same moment you end yours.  _God_ , was the world just more  _real_ in that moment? Why was fighting beside him so exhilarating? Was it just the adrenaline getting to your head? Why is he taking so long to kiss you?

The kiss only kept those energies flowing. That feeling like you could conquer the entire world with him returns full force, and it’s like you’re teenagers again. Aimlessly fighting off the bad without a defined purpose, fighting  _together_ , while naive and young and full of energy. But what sets this kiss apart from all of the ones from your teenage years is simple. You understand your purpose. You have found your place beside each other and rooted there. You have found each other.

**_**

**Bonus:**

“Happy birthday, darling.”

“Thank you, Bruce. Now… do you wanna…”

“…Go to a another bar and start another bar fight? I’m not opposed to the idea…”

“You complete me, Mr. Wayne.”

“As do you for me, Mx. Wayne.”


	4. Left and Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne is the left side of the brain and you are the right. So why on Earth would he ask you to come to Wayne Manor and to bring art supplies?

“It should be a  _symbol_.” Bruce said.

Bruce had said a lot of things lately, and most pertained to you in some manner. He’d been throwing compliments and questions at you all week ( _“You—uh, you look very lovely in that dress, Y/N”. “I trust you. Do you trust me?” “Your art skills are ineffable. Could you help me with something… important?”_ ). That last one had placed you here, at Wayne Manor, sketchbook in hand and every possible color on  _Earth_ in your bag.

“What  _kind_ of symbol?” You asked him for what felt like the hundredth time only in different phrasing.

Bruce folded his hands against his chin, index fingers twitching at one another while he thought. You loved seeing him in this state. His eyes grew an unnamed shade of blue, thoughts clouding and swirling in his irises. His pupils worked almost as the moon, eclipsing over the ocean of his ideas—no, wait, you know that color… it is no wonder Bruce Wayne is so intricately knotted with Gotham, for when his mind reels into motion it is his eyes that turn the color of his city’s sky. The rain-heavy lead clouds greet you when Bruce looks up again.

He shrugs.”I have no idea.” He scans your face with a twin pair of Gotham’s storms, indicating it is your turn to think even if this should be entirely Bruce in essence.  _If I am to rid Gotham of crime then I need to be more than just a man_ , Bruce told you,  _I need to be a symbol. Something that will not only make criminals afraid, but something that will make them **change**_. Clearly, if he could describe his thoughts so poetically then he could  _easily_ decipher them enough to create this symbol. But he can appreciate how you don’t make fun of the silly and near-impossible things he is suggesting.

You hold eye-contact with him for longer than necessary across the coffee table of his office (Bruce would argue that it’s his  _father’s)_. You, of course, break first. And when you do a smile alights on your face. Sliding the book off of your lap, you stood from your seat across from him and flung yourself down into his lap. Only slightly alarmed by your closeness, Bruce fidgets until you are both comfortable with your head resting on his thighs.

“But then again, that is why I called you here.” Bruce smiled, ”You are the right side of the brain and I—”

“—am the left,” You finished for him, mirroring his expression. Bruce hesitantly drapes his forearm over your chest, and when you don’t force him off he relaxes. This feeling is fortified when your fingers rise to touch his wrist. There is nothing else but the soft stroke of your thumb as you stare at each other…  _thinking_. Rather than left vs. right, it is left  _and_ right, working together like a real brain would. Bruce likes the symmetry. You like the metaphor.

“You said you want to  _make_ criminals afraid, right?” You asked, and Bruce nods. You tilt your head to the side, shimmying about on the couch to get more comfortable. At least he is warm. ”Well, why don’t you show that  _you’re not_ afraid? You could represent something that you’re afraid of to show that you can conquer fear.” You try and twist your words to fit the dramatic way that he speaks and understands things. Bruce Wayne’s life is one big fairy-tale, or an epic adventure (that would make you the love interest), so it makes sense that he is fluent in theatrical wording. You’ve never met anyone who’s said  _“I’m learning to conquer fear”_  unironically.

It is then that you sit up, balancing your weight on the opposite side of Bruce’s hip and folding your legs onto the couch. You search his face for a multitude of reasons; he has always looked so handsome under firelight, with it perfectly highlighting his best attributes, like a spotlight for art on display; it is near impossible after so much time and training to tell when he is lying, so you must make him at least a little uncomfortable in order for the truth to be confessed. He remains serious even if his face has altered in color.

You lean in so he can feel the shift in the air when your lips part for your words. You only feel a little bad when you catch on to just how tightly spun he is around your finger, but that guilt flutters off like a startled animal. His gaze falls to your lips. Bruce watches them curl and curve when you ask him, ”What are you afraid of, Bruce Wayne?”

For your answer,  _emotional commitment_  is the first thing that comes to mind. It had taken months for Bruce to even  _consider_ a relationship even if it had been established that you liked one another—but you could respect that. After this stage, he had flown in and out of dozens of questions and argument with himself. Was he ready for that? (Still unsure on that one). Did he make you happy? ( _God_ , yes). Did you make him happy? (More than you could ever know). It had taken a kidnapping, desperately confessed and thought-to-be last words, and then a kiss to seal the deal.

Again, there is another long moment of silence. These periods of pure, unjudged quietness for the sake of his processing are  _everything_ to Bruce Wayne. He is a complicated young man, and complicated young men need to time to ask themselves questions. You give that time. And when you do, you do not judge or grow uncomfortable, patient and persistent in your need to get the full truth out of him—giving him time to think will give this to you.

“ _Bats_.” Bruce said.

You open your mouth to question him why, but then it comes back to you. You and Bruce running through the greenhouse. Bruce seeing the rabbit. Bruce chasing the rabbit into the bushes, foot catching on the edge of the concrete, and then tumbling down into the worn, broken well. The blinding pain of a broken arm, followed by red eyes, staring at him intently from every crevice. Then they all burst free. Bruce remembers the wings and the way they cut his arms. He remembers how his father had checked every scratch, and how you and his mother applied each band-aid.

The image of what he will be, what the suit will become, flashes behind his eyelids. He only notices he has shut them when he opens his eyes, and before he can second-guess himself he is kissing you. He grins into the kiss. Bruce envelops you in a hug in the same motion, and you fall deeper into him with your sudden loss of balance in your hand. The moment you are embraced you feel safety blanket you as his arms do. It is an unfamiliar but needed sensation.

The sixteen-year-old breaks the kiss in the exact same way he entered it. Bruce pulled away and grinned brighter at the dreamy-sigh that escaped your lips. You slap a hand over your mouth embarrassedly, while Bruce proceeds to leap from the couch, more animated and eager than ever. He cups your face, eyes alight with an epiphany of a true and promising idea of a future. You can feel it vibrating off of him, as if it is who he already is and you have solved the great mystery that is Bruce Wayne.

“You are a  _genius!_ ” Bruce exclaimed joyously.

“What…? I am…?” You said deliriously. It was not often that Bruce Wayne kissed you. Usually, when you shared any kind of kiss you had been the one to initiate it, so having him show his appreciation in such a way sends you into a daze.

“Oh, yes,” Bruce said. He dodged around the coffee table and stole a pencil from its surface, frantically diving for your sketchbook and quickly getting to work. He draws something swiftly, purely a draft. Bruce stared at it, amazed and cleared of any doubt he had previously had within himself. He tosses the book back on the table and it spins so that you can see the design. It is a crudely drawn bat that isn’t very anatomically correct, but it  _works_. For some odd reason it seems to fit him. It feels  _right_.

“Bruce.” You laughed his name as he strides to your side again. He tilts up your chin, nodding once and hoping you can understand what you’ve done. You’ve cleared a pathway. You’ve cleared him and organized all his cluttered thoughts. Of course it would be you. He translates that euphoric comprehension inside of him into another kiss. This one lasts longer and leaves him pressing you deeper into the couch.

You only separate for a moment this time, just for a breath, and when you return you ravel your arms around his neck and bring him closer. Bruce doesn’t hesitate to put his all into that kiss. You hum pleasantly at his touch, inhaling sharply when you split. You squeeze his arms reassuringly. Bruce shakes his head, delirious. He isn’t lost anymore. He knows what the symbol will be—Bruce will become a  _bat_ , a creature of the night that preys on fear and predators. He has found his purpose.

“You are extraordinary, Y/N. I must inform Alfred.” Bruce said, high on his own bliss. He hasn’t been so happy,  _truly_ happy in so long, the words flow from his lips without warning. You flush. If he’s being honest, then he deserves honestly too. So you blurt the first thing that comes to mind, grasping his hand before he can run off and begin his destined legacy, ”Just stay a little longer and  _kiss me_ , Bruce Wayne.”

When Bruce’s gaze turns he is smiling, slyly, blissfully, smartly, all at once. He glances at the doorway like Alfred will come in any minute even if he is out on a shopping trip. You blush at the sudden want in his eyes; not lust, no, but adoration and gratefulness. Bruce doesn’t hesitate to meld his lips against yours, scooping your body from the couch and wrapping his arm around your waist. He feels something grow in his chest, a foreign thing that is too warm to be real. When you kiss him deeper, with more devotion than Bruce thinks he deserves, he understands what it is.

“ _Ah,”_ Bruce could imagine his mother’s happy sigh. She always liked fairy-tale endings, where the princess kisses the prince and every problem seems to be resolved. ” _Young love.”_

Bruce Wayne isn’t the best at explaining his feelings, and he probably never will be. But…  _boy_ , is he amazing at showing them through his actions… you’ve found this particularly accurate in the way he kisses… 


	5. Billionaire Brat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Bruce Wayne has just begun to develope his “billionaire, playboy” cover. When he finds that his charm can impress the girls at galas, he starts to hope it can impress the girl at Wayne Manor, too.

You had been apricating pleasantly in one of the many living rooms of Wayne Manor, splayed out on the warm carpet with your eyes closed. You liked this room the most for one reason and one reason alone: the windows were floor-to-ceiling, so you could lay like a lazy cat while basking in the sunlight. Particles float through the ray of light slipping into the home, dancing and swirling around one another, the midday sun embracing the surface of your body. It is a beautiful day. **  
**

You sighed deeply when you heard footsteps approaching. They were a little heavier than you were accustomed to, with a measured pace to every step that gave the impression of confidence. It makes you imagine someone who lifts their chin when they talk. That’s not what you get… exactly, anyway.

Bruce Wayne smiles,”Y/N.” He must not like the way he makes the word sound, as he clears his throat and forces his voice to become smoother. ”I knew I’d find you here.”

You roll over onto your belly and balance your chin on your hands, grinning up at your friend in return.”Sorry. It’s just so nice out, but I was too lazy to put on my shoes and…” You gesture to the window with a tilt of your head, trying not to grin as hard as you feel like grinning. You are entirely aware of what Bruce Wayne does to you. But Bruce isn’t and doesn’t reciprocate, regardless of what Alfred, and Selina, and Jim, and—okay, yeah, a _lot_ of people have told you that Bruce liked you in return. You’ll believe it when you see it. And oh, are you about too.

“You look so beautiful all relaxed like this,” Bruce offers his hand, vivaciously beaming in the way the sun outside does. You take his hand with a tentative blush, which only deepens when he pulls you to your feet and doesn’t release your hand.”I’m glad I can see you like this.” The combination of sincerity and lack of seriousness makes you question his intentions; since when was Bruce  _ever_ not serious?

Your lips part and your exhale trembles with delight when Bruce leans down. He presses a smirking kiss against your hand, eyes never trailing nervously away from your own in the way they typically do. His confidence is almost all-consuming. You have yet to decide if you like this yet. The phantom feeling of his kiss against your knuckles doesn’t fade, even when he releases your fingers delicately, like a magician might release a dove from his hat.

Bruce’s hands aren’t aquiver with his limerence, his voice doesn’t crack like a pubescent boy’s, and he isn’t blurting out stupid things at any given moment. He’s thinking. He’s  _processing_ , processing how deep you blush when his lips leave your fingers, how your breath hitches with the sudden but welcomed compliment. He should process things a lot more—you in particular.

“I—me too. Thanks.” You flushed deeply. A haze of confusion still blankets your thoughts as his movements become less and less Bruce-like the deeper the conversation becomes. He leans back into the arm of the nearest leather couch, folding his arms casually and looking you over once more. As embarrassed and unkept do you feel under his gaze, you remain unwavering and (a little) unafraid when you ask, ”But—quick question—why… um, why are you acting so…  _weird?_ ”

Bruce’s eyes widen ever so slightly, like he’s been caught, before he relaxes his stance even further to hide the true rigidness of his frame. He chuckles, ”What do you mean, Y/N?”

You catch onto just how tense he is, which can be read even if he tries his best to hide it. You copy his earlier stance and cross your arms suspiciously. ”…You’re a terrible liar. What are you doing?”

Bruce pulls a fairly-well executed raised eyebrow and look of confusion. But it doesn’t reach his eyes the way his sudden panic does, and you take a step forward to breach his space. You narrow your eyes,”Bruce Wayne is an adorable young man who stutters when I talk to him, has a face as red as a cherry, is stuck in his head half the time I’m around, goes out of his way to make me happy and—” Halfway through a thought crosses your mind, and your suspicion drops out of your hands like an escaped rabbit. Wide-eyed, you stare back at the boy that you now realize has a massive crush on you.

Okay, you weren’t stupid. Bruce Wayne didn’t ask to dance with just any girl, didn’t call you in the middle of the night to talk about nightmares and better dreams for no reason, and certainly didn’t blush like a mad-men when you had to kiss him for a “mission” once. You just figured that he did all those things with Selina too. Judging by how she smirked between you and Bruce as you talked, unnaturally close and concerned with one another’s safety, she either not feel the same way or simply knew that Bruce liked you. Which he did.

Too tired and lazy to care about your own decisions, you watch as he struggles to stutter out an explanation. You plant your hands beside his hips and trap him against the couch. His expression flitters from  _“oh god”_  to  _“oh god please kiss me”_. In the few seconds it takes for him to silence, you decide what you are going to do.

“Bruce.” You say.

“Y-Y/N.” Bruce responds.

A short silence.

“Were you and Alfred practicing your acting skills the other day so you could impress me?”

“…” Bruce paused again. ”…No.”

“Okay,” your hands abandoned their places at his sides, instead settling onto your waist,”Too bad. Guess I won’t kiss you like I had planned to.”

“I-I—” Bruce stands up straight, watching you scoop up your book from the coffee table, bookmark your page, and then head for the door. He watches you exit with his mouth agape. Suddenly, he finds the sense to follow you and darts out of the room. Bruce called down the hall, ”Wait! Y/N, hold on!”

You snicker to yourself when he hollers,”I meant  _yes!_ I’m sorry for lying!” He tentatively adds, sighing to himself and raising a hand to reach out for you, ”…I would like a kiss…”


	6. To Escape, part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are the aristocratic daughter of Dr. L/N, who’s work envelopes him so much he has no time for his daughter and her fantasies of a loving soulmate.

“Will father be able to tuck me in tonight, Nan?” You whispered. You didn’t need to look at your Nanny to know she shook her head. It was the same answer  _every time_ you proposed the idea. Nan hung up your jacket on the hook beside the front door to your home, solemn expression hidden as she turned away. Facing you, she folded her hands respectfully and shook her head. Nan gently pushed a stray curl of hair out of your face, offering a smile, ”But I will, if you want me too…” She suggested kindly. **  
**

Today, you had done many things. You woke up, which was a personal goal you were proud to complete every morning. It had gotten easier to do over time. You ate breakfast in the garden with Nan, who, despite her professional boundaries as a maid, listened to your request and ate with you anyway. You took the extra cans in the pantry and delivered them to the homeless shelter down the road, after donating to the facility as much as your father would allow. And then, after lunch and your fencing classes, informed your mother’s gravestone of your weekly accomplishments. You had done this or similar tasks every day for the entirety of the summer, and yet you had only encountered your father—who shared the same home with you—only _twice_.

So hearing that he would not tuck you in at night was no unusual occurrence.

Of course, you knew why, you weren’t stupid. He slaved over papers and homework and more work every waking hour. And every minute, every  _millisecond_ was in your family’s honor. Every time he wrote another word another dollar was added to your college fund, or the bank account. With your father’s absence came money and influence. With money and influence, you had a home and an education unlike any other. Regardless, you would trade your family’s name and fortune for one hour of time with your father, good or bad. At least, that’s how it was just after your mother died. Now, with every, " _No, I’m afraid your father is busy,"_ you became more bitter, and every punch you threw during training was rougher than necessary.

You see, in your world, there was a reality and complication many disliked when it came to confrontation.  _Soulmates_. The way you knew who your soulmate was through the release of a chemical compound in your irises—or, to put more simply… you right is the color of your soulmate’s and your left is your own. When you meet your soulmate, your right eye is changed to match your left. Your eyes, a pair of blue and E/C, were quite the sight that many cooed over. Your father’s eyes were complete, all thanks to your mother… who is now gone. Without her, your father distracts himself with work. In turn, he ignores you.

“You do not need to tuck me in, Nan.” You say, tone reminiscent of your mother’s. Picking up the skirt of your day-dress, you glance back at her over your shoulder and nod, "I will put myself to bed. Have a good evening.” You wished. She slowly nodded, eyes heavy with concern. You brush off her glances and proceed up the steps in the foyer.

The best way to fall asleep is to create a story in your mind to escape to. Often, your soulmate was the subject of these internal tales, whisking you away to a world where attention is given out like oxygen. A world where you are never alone, and where they, male or female, are always there for you. That feeling you get when soulmates are discussed settles in your stomach just as you settle into bed, and the feeling—like that of the steep fall of a rollercoaster cart—does not leave as you toss and turn.

_

You shamelessly pop one of the caramels into your mouth, depositing the wrapper into the trashcan beside the dish they are held in. The distinct smell of your favorite breakfast is wafting through the air. Your mouth waters around the caramel as you enter the main hall, taking two more from the dish as you turn into the kitchen. There, your two favorite maids are cooking and bustling away.

“Good morning, Miss Y/N.” They chime in unison, both smiling and waving at you. You playfully smile back, settling your hands on your hips and taking in the scent of early morning deliciousness. "You look joyful, Miss Y/N, did you have a good dream?” Asks May, the sweet maid with pale skin and blonde hair. Catherine, her best friend, pipes up from over the stove, "It was probably about that boy she likes at school. What’s his name again? (crush’s name)?”

You blush, tossing one of the candies in her direction. She catches it easily as you offer the other to May, who accepts the offer with a polite response. You pat Catherine’s shoulder as you pass her, "You better not tell anyone else about that!” You laugh, gesturing to her pointedly. Cheekily, she shakes her head and sings, "No promises.”

When you enter the dining room, you’re greeted by Nan and one of your father’s personal butler’s. At the sight of him, you nearly choke on your own saliva; if he’s here, then…

Your father smiles at you as you enter the room, folding the napkin in his lap,”Y/N, glad you could join us.” At the indication there is more than just him eating at the breakfast table, you follow his nod to the man and woman sitting to his left and right.”Have you met our guests before…?” You father asks. You settle yourself beside the woman, who gives you a kind smile and she extends her hand,”My name is Martha Wayne, and this is my husband, Thomas. You’re (father’s name)’s daughter?”

“Nice to meet you.” You say politely, reaching over the table to shake Mr. Wayne’s hand. They echo similar replies as your stomach drops. So your father didn’t come down here to eat with you… he came for Mr. and Mrs. Wayne. The frown enveloping your face is conquered by your most realistic business-transaction smile. You glance at your father,”Should I eat in my room? I mean, I don’t want to bother you and the Waynes…” You trailed off uneasily.

Your father shakes his head,”No, no! Actually, we were just talking about you, so it’d be great if you stayed.” He smiled, but his eyes were thick and cloudy with guilt. Thomas folds his hands on the tablecloth, grinning proudly,”Yes, we have a son about your age.”

“Bruce Wayne.” You acknowledge, nodding your head,”I’ve heard of him. He’s quite a handsome young man.” You smiled, even though you’d only heard of the boy and never seen his face. Considering who his parents were however, you were sure he was pretty. And, like most of Gotham’s elite couples, Thomas and Martha soulmates. They both glowed with love and affection for one another, and you were sure they loved their son more than anything; at the mere mention of him, they both beam proudly.

“I would imagine you and Bruce would get along quite well, Ms. L/N. And hopefully you will tonight, if you are attending our charity gala with your father.” Martha smiled suggestively, raising her eyebrows to indicate if you would be attending or not. Looking to your father for answers, you interrogated him with your gaze. He gave a small nod of approval, urging you to say yes. Although hours ago you were desperate for your father’s company, trailing him around all night didn’t exactly fit the bill. Either way, if it was for charity you couldn’t say no. So you put on your most charming smile for the Waynes,”Of course I’ll go.”

* * *

The charity gala was for Gotham’s Children’s Hospital, and that meant that most of the donors would have kids. This meant you would be surrounded by children from toddlers to teenagers, and would most likely be forced to hook arms with Bruce Wayne all night. Thinking about it gave you a headache… but then again, you’ve had a headache since last night. Regardless of his parents, Bruce was probably a little snot. His whole life would be chandeliers and tuxedos. But who were you to judge? You’d grown up in the same environment, the pressure of being the child of one of Gotham’s most wealthy businessmen equal to Bruce’s.

But you were always a sucker for children, so it wouldn’t be so bad. You’d always wanted a little brother or sister, which you had never received because of your mother’s passing. And you were at Gotham’s Children’s Hospital every weekend, you volunteered every chance you could. If you didn’t go to this gala it would be a crime. And, speaking of crime, it wasn’t just Gotham’s middle-class that you tended to. Nan would drive you around the narrows to pass out food all the time. It was the reason you were never robbed, attacked, or mugged; you genuinely cared for Gotham’s people… even if one of them took your mother from you.

Your dress was doll-like, as always, which you never really minded. Your hair was left in your favorite style, and your shoes were comfortable flats that you could move in. Even as your head began to pound, your eyes aching like you’d been staring at a computer screen for the past ten hours, you kept going. For Gotham’s children. For all the kids you visited on weekends.

The car ride was without substance, as your father sat on the phone for 98% of it. You opted for staring out the window and watching the passing scenery. As always, Gotham’s sky looked like it was about to storm. You liked it that way. You liked the rain. You liked the  _science_ behind the rain. Rain had been there for you through everything. It helped you sleep, it helped you mourn, it showed you how to dance without a care in the world. The rain taught you a lot.

You had arrived early just in case the Wayne’s needed help, which you wouldn’t mind. You knew they had a staff that would be doing the setup and clean-up, but maybe they were shorthanded or something else. It would also help you determine if Bruce was worth talking too, and where you would hide if he wasn’t. Meanwhile, your head continued to pound.

Mr. and Mrs. Wayne opened the door themselves, greeting you enthusiastically and you even received a hug in greeting from Martha. She complimented you immensely, leading you down the hall to the largest space in the venue they had rented. The ballroom was filled with staff as you had assumed, and you and Mrs. Wayne left your father and her husband to talk about business; no surprise there.

“Is there anything I can help with?” You asked softly, your voice strained by the pain your headache was giving you. Mrs. Wayne caught on, tilting her head to the side as she inquired,”Oh no, darling, but thank you. Are you alright?” You nodded even if you were  _definitely_ not alright, gently rubbing your temples,”I’m fine, Mrs. Wayne. Just a little bit of a headache.”

 _If “little bit of a headache” meant “my brain is trying to escape my skull”_ , you thought painfully. You dropped your fingers from your face as not to worry her, facing the area in which the buffet was placed,”And what is on the menu for—”

A boy about your age entered the scene, grumbling to himself as he held the side of his head,”Mother, have you seen Alfred? I have a terrible headache and I think I’m going to need medicine.” He questioned Martha, and before you even saw his face you knew this must be Bruce Wayne. Both because he called Martha _“mother”_  and that his voice sounded exactly like what you imagined his father’s sounded like at that age.

You turned away from the buffet to see the boys face. But your skull was greeted by a pain powerful enough to kill a man. You let out an audible cry just as you caught a glimpse of Bruce’s face, before your legs buckled underneath you and you tumbled to the floor. Bruce cried out as you had done, falling into his mother’s side as the pain welled in his eyes. A staff member leaned down, face flushed with concern as they offered you a hand and questioned your health. You were lucky not many guests had arrived just yet.

Liquid flowed down your face, and you nearly thought it was tears until something splattered against the tile. It was red, red blood. You recognized it instantly, flowing and welling in your eyes like you had been crying. It must have mixed with tears because it was much more liquidy than expected, and you could taste the iron and salt mixing on your lips as the blood fell down your face. For a startling breath you thought you were dying. Until you looked at Bruce, who was staring down at the blood coating his hands with two startling blue eyes.

As quick as lightning, your gaze returned to the tiles. They were so clean you could see your reflection, and at the same time easily make out the change in your appearance. Your eyes, once mismatched and unpaired, were equally E/C and beautifully so. Your opinion of Bruce drastically changed in from one to the next in the span of a few seconds. While one moment he was probably the snobbish rich boy you would have to tolerate for the night, and now he was the most handsome boy you’d ever seen in your entire life.

You didn’t realize you were staring at him until he stared back. His mother dropped to her knees down in front of his crumpled form, cooing her worries as he used a handkerchief to scrub at his eyes. She looked back to you in shock and amazement. In her awe, she managed to compose herself and step back. When Thomas, Alfred, and your father came rushing to the scene after hearing the yelling, she outstretched her arms and pulled them away from you and Bruce.

Every being in the room silenced as you and Bruce stared at each other, panting and heaving with sudden bloody tears. You covered your mouth as a cry broke from your lips, and Bruce’s expression fluttered from concerned to mutual happiness. You weren’t weeping, but crying happily, tears steadily pinkening and then clearing altogether.

“Hi.” You murmured, which made Bruce laugh for no reason. When it calmed, he nodded more to himself than you and smiled.

”Hi.” He responded. In a gentlemanly fashion, he offered the clean side of the handkerchief, which you accepted and wiped down your face. Bruce kept smiling at you, and you felt good simply because he was looking at you. This was something more than a crush.

“I… I know this may be inappropriate,” Bruce blushed as you returned the handkerchief, realizing how weird this really was. You were both sitting in miniature puddles of blood on the floor, smiling and crying like idiots. Bruce cleared his throat awkwardly, but it seems like he’d been practicing for this moment since the day he was born, ”But may I hug you?”

You giggled, nodding and wiping your face with the back of your hand. You felt the connection, and it was euphoric. Bruce had barely done anything yet and you  _adored_ him. You wanted to learn everything about him and  _right now_ , because if you didn’t… your mind didn’t like the idea of not knowing this boy. Slowly, you nodded again and swallowed the lump in your throat, "Please.” You whispered, ”I’d like that.”

Bruce wobbled to a stand, extending his hand and guiding you upward. You pulled him in first, and it made you realize just how cold you were because his skin was steaming. The hug wasn’t awkward at all, which was another surprising thing. It was warm and welcoming and promising of a future. Your worries were painted over with a pink lens. Your legs were suddenly jello and your shoes were glue. Your chin on his shoulder was a perfect fit.

“Bruce.” He murmured an introduction. You smiled into his suit jacket, ”Y/N.” You returned. Softly you whispered through laughter, ”You have very pretty eyes, Bruce.” You could feel his face heat impossibly hotter against your temple. It made you smile. So he wasn’t a spoiled brat, but rather a soft rich kid. Your soulmate indeed. Bruce smiled a _“thank you”_  right next to your ear, before clearing his throat and parting from you.

There was a moment where you stared at one another under the light, until you finally broke your gazes and to stare at your shoes instead. Bruce chuckled, which made you look you up and smile. He noticed the blood on your dress and frowned, suddenly looking toward the pack of parents watching your exchange eagerly. Mr. and Mrs. Wayne looked like they might cry, your father was beaming, and Alfred was… impressed? Confused? Either way, you could relate to his expression.

“Um, if it’s alright with you, Mr. L/N…” Bruce coughed, gesturing to the blood on your dress. Mr. and Mrs. Wayne must have mentioned you or maybe Bruce knew your name as you knew of his. You could care less right now, because you had just found your soulmate and the world started spinning again even if your mom wasn’t on it, ”… I think I might take Y/N to clean up.”

Your father didn’t realize he was being spoken to, too caught up in the moment of second-hand happiness for you. Alfred elbowed him and he suddenly coughed, ”Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Wayne.” He nodded slowly. Thomas pointed in the direction of the bathrooms, mouthing a  _“good luck”_  to Bruce.

Gingerly, he extends his hand to you. You took it easily, like you weren’t complete strangers and you’d known him all of your life. The depression of your mother’s passing leaked out of you to make room for the slowly evolving affection growing in your heart for Bruce Wayne.

As he dabs at the skirt of your dress with a wet cloth, you watch his blue eyes and the way they move and scrunch and close as he thinks. He flashes you an awkward smile that makes your heart try to force it’s way out of your chest to be with him. You could definitely get used to staring at those pretty blue eyes.


	7. To Escape, part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It comes out of nowhere. You swear that you have been shot, you swear that your body is pulsing with pain from an injury, and you swear that you’re bleeding and that the world is tilting off its axis. But no glass has shattered. You were only reading, and in the next minute Nan finds you curled at the bay-windows base, hands over your ears as you rocked against the floorboards.

It comes out of nowhere. You swear that you have been shot, you swear that your body is pulsing with pain from an injury, and you swear that you’re bleeding and that the world is tilting off its axis. But no glass has shattered. You were only reading, and in the next minute Nan finds you curled at the bay-windows base, hands over your ears as you rocked against the floorboards.

When you come too, you don’t remember anything she later describes. You don’t remember hitting the floor, you don’t remember her finding you. You don’t even remember passing out. The only thing you felt was  _pain, pain, pain_ , beating and throbbing with your heart to the point that you felt like every vein in your body was about to burst. It all stemmed from that doorway in the back of your conscience, were Bruce’s emotions gently spilled beneath the entry like a cool, constantly rolling fog. But when the pain started that door had  _strained_ to the point of cracking. And according to the doctors, it had nearly been torn off the hinges; if this were to happen Bruce’s thoughts would blur with your own to the point of insanity. They called it informally a “ _soulmate mind-meld_ ”, followed by a long scientific term you didn’t care about.

You didn’t see anything. Only  _felt_. Cool air against your skin, two warm hands holding each other your own. Panic, crawling up your spine and wrapping around your mind like a living  _hungry_ monster of black, inky tar. Then too much heat, sent out in two sharp bursts. Cold again, but the kind of cold that seeps too deep into your skin and is forever unshakeable. A hot, sticky liquid on your hands.  _Blood_. Tears on your face. Your throat aching from screaming. The world falling apart as two people were ripped from it—but it wasn’t  _you_ experiencing this. It was  _Bruce._ So when you come to in the hospital you are shaking, yelling his name with a desperation that Nan had never heard you use before. It’s bad enough where they have to subdue you with a sleeping agent. An hour later Nan gets the call from Alfred, and the two cry over the phone as she clutches your hand in her sleep.

Martha and Thomas Wayne are dead.

Martha and Thomas Wayne are dead, and when Alfred tells you this in person, with his head hung low and his body heavy with defeat, your shoulders shake with sobs and you can only feel that pain—Bruce’s pain—returning. It comes out of nowhere as it did in the beginning, silent and merciless lashes of memories that cut deep into your flesh.

Martha and Thomas Wayne are dead. Bruce  _feels_ dead, and you put almost too much effort into making yourself happy to make  _him_ happy. He has not left his room to come see you, so when the doctors release you from the hospital you demand Nan drives you to Wayne Manor then and there. When you arrive, no words are spoken. When you arrive, you throw your arms around Bruce Wayne and bawl until the world has ended.

_

Bruce hates to do this to you. You can feel it, ghosting beneath that backdoor. The Manor keeps calling to him, and you get small glimpses of his thoughts every now and then; it’s been like that since Thomas and Martha died. The doctors said that Bruce’s emotions were almost too strong to bear for his conscience at the time, so his brain did the only thing it could think of to survive—it shoved some of that pain through the door and to you, so now there are more cracks in it, and now you and Bruce are much closer than normal soulmates should be. The doctors say it’s a “rare case”. Which you know means “accident”.

Brief little thoughts of his swim and lick at your feet as you stand in the center of your mind. You see your own face, an altered version of it from Bruce’s point of view, too beautiful and almost radiating a glow of warmth that can’t be real. You see pieces and fragments of the painting above the fireplace in the parlor, where Thomas and Martha stare down at you; Martha, as always, is smiling calmly. You can remember the times she’d curl you under one arm and have Bruce under the other as you watched movies. You remember how caring she was with a sadness that you hate that you’ve gotten used to; Thomas is hearty but compassionate, and you see him in Bruce every time the teen movies or speaks. He walks and talks in the way that demands your attention. Thomas had that same air to him.

“You can’t be in that environment, Y/N,” Bruce said seriously, his brows drawn and his lips pursed tightly against his teeth. ”I’d rather you were safe at home. And besides, I need someone to take care of W.E. while I’m gone, and you’re too smart to be going where I’m going.”

He didn’t even have to look at you to know how badly you wanted him to stay. But he did and was immediately greeted by sour, bitter tears edging on your irises. Bruce sighed.”And I’d rather go out and train, push myself further than anyone else has, be stabbed and shot in order to get where we’re trying to go, then come home and teach you the same way—but  _safely_.” Bruce collected your fingers, pulling them up to his lips and placing a reassuring kiss on the center of your knuckles.

“How long until I’m going to see you again?” You asked, even though you had already asked that, and hated the answer even more. It had taken you both too many nights in front of the fire, designing plans and tackling the issues of that future. After Martha and Thomas Wayne died that night… after you both felt that same, crippling pain at the hands of a criminal, you had a mutual vendetta against them. But Bruce had tried going out and beating up criminals and it didn’t work.  _You_ had tried going out and beating up criminals and it didn’t work. He just needed training and experience, and in order to get those, he needed to go places where the dead walked and the air smells of blood. Meanwhile, you’d be getting every useful degree in the book for your cause.

“A long time, Y/N,” Bruce said,”I don’t… I don’t know how long.”

_

The next time you see your soulmate in person is so informational and solutional.  _Completing_. You had dreamt, prayed, thought of, and pleaded for the day when he came back, but you had missed so many details. Your brain never thought to wonder how deep his voice would get (very, very deep). You never stopped to question just  _how_ bulky that training would make him. You had not once asked yourself if he was never coming back at all, as something in the back of your mind—Bruce, no doubt—kept pushing that idea off the table.

You hated how you  _liked_ how deep the bond was. It had been created in the worst of ways, with the worst source of pain, and yet you thanked that you could sense Bruce no matter how far away he was. In comparison to the early days of your connection, it was… exhilarating. Maybe you were just getting used to how the color of your eyes was the same, or maybe you were caught up in the web the two of you had made together because this new bond was not a bond at all. It was almost a living thing, beating in tune with your hearts.

But the bond had kept you close. It was a form of unspoken communication. You’d lay in bed, tiredly twisting your fingers in the tunnel of moonlight falling onto your too-large mattress. Bruce would be on the other side of the world, hiking a dying trail of sand and searing sunlight, when he’d feel a hand reaching for him. As Bruce reached for the sun in those moments you grazed the moon, it became easier to breathe again. You’d fall asleep in a dreamless abyss of midnight, and Bruce would tread on with the sun turning its face away from his.

But now, you’re both under the same, snow-covered sun. Now your boots are planted in the same ground, and you’re hearing the same sounds and breathing the same air. He’s here. You’re here. The world might not be ending after all.

He’s  _tall_. By god, he’s tall and muscular, and bulky, and still walking like he owns the ground he walks on. Wayne Manor  _is_ his home, but he will instantly say it is his father’s at the mention. His hair is slicked back with gel, and beneath that expensive winter coat, a suit warms him in the cold weather. For some reason you expect his eyes to be two different shades. But they are both startlingly blue, a frosted lake in the middle of the winter landscape, chilly and icy and serious, but melting the moment they fall on you. You don’t care that you ran outside in your pajamas and are currently freezing your ass off. You don’t care that both Nan and Alfred are insisting you to put on a coat and shoes.

In a flurry of motion, you launch off the porch and your bare ankles are plunged into icy snow. The white dust goes flying as you take off, sprinting across the lawn and the cobblestone driveway, kicking up with your heels as you run as fast as you can. Bruce immediately drops his bags and readies himself. He catches you flawlessly around the backs of your knees, pulling you up with an arm so you can eagerly wrap your around arms around his neck. He sighs: thankful, and welcoming the affection you drench him with.

“Alfred, Nan.” He greets. His voice is a steady river, vibrating under your hand powerfully and deeply. But it is weighed with a tiredness you had felt since yesterday. You decide to resolve it by placing a hard kiss on his cheekbone. To which he looks at you, and a smile that you have not seen in  _years_ appears; it is weighed with tiredness, doused with pain, but it is still somehow one of those smiles you missed. You find yourself blushing with the idea of him simply looking at you, and realizing with half-hearted dread just how devastatingly handsome he’s gotten. To add onto that, he’s rich (richer with your family’s combined money, which he doesn’t dare take from without your permission and vice-versa), and currently carrying your entire body on one arm. You  _know_ that the new Bruce Wayne is going to be a heartbreaker, and your starting to question if you will be one of those hearts.

“I trust you’ve been well, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. Nan smiles eagerly, and already has his bags in her arms ,”C’mon! Get inside you two, it is absolutely  _freezing_ out here!”

Bruce deftly sets you on the hood of the car and makes a face at your bare feet, but you wave him over to Alfred and watch as they embrace. You are sure that Alfred has missed Bruce as much as you do, and Nan pesters you about Bruce’s well being with every breath. And Bruce being Bruce, so desperate for family and for home, has already rooted himself back into place within minutes of returning.

_

You know he’s hurt. You know he’s broken, and unprepared. You remember—you  _always remember_ —the weight in your bed shifting, a hand sliding back your hair and lips pressing into your forehead. You hear your bookmark slide into your book and hear it be set aside, but you’re too tired to open your eyes. But sometime after that, between restless and white-hot painful dreams, you lurch into a sitting position. Seconds after you awake thunder cracks across the sky and shakes the foundations of your new home. Then, echoing shattering, bouncing off the walls and ricocheting into your bedroom from somewhere far off. Something in the harsh rain of glass is a shrill sound; a shriek, but not one of human origin. It is startling how these sounds come together, and it is equally startling how fast they stop.

The silence is as loud as the previous clatter. You feel it beat within you and mirror back in someone else. Then, quietly, softly, a bell chimes. The bell used to call Nan or Alfred. That brings you to your feet, alert in every way and clutching the bat from beneath your bed until you can feel the splinters under your nails. Nan meets you in the hallway, her breath still.

“In the parlor.” She whispered.

You fought over who leads the way until she gives in because you hold the weapon. The Manor is a labyrinth at night. You used to hate it when Bruce was gone, for every step you took the fortress moved with you, the darkness surrounding you. This Manor is too old not to be haunted.

The parlor door sends a sliver of pale light onto the carpet. Peaking through the crack, you almost don’t see anything until the lightning returns, carving it’s ugly and beautiful marks through the rain. In that moment you see him; someone is sitting in Bruce’s chair and has shifted it so it faces the window. The  _broken_ window, as something flies in the darkness, squeaking and shrieking with the alarm the storm outside causes. It circles the lights hung over the pool table, before swooping down and perching on the table before the heavy leather chair. The bell rings again, smaller than the last time.

Before Alfred can enter the room, you put the both of them behind you and squeeze through the crack soundlessly. Your heart is in your ears and quakes with the storm, your hands are shaking, but the closer you get the more pain you feel. Then the bloody man in Bruce’s chair isn’t just a man, but Bruce, and then you’re dropping the bat and Nan and Alfred are rushing in.

“Bruce? Bruce, darling?” You question wildly, feeling suddenly helpless. He was in civilian wear, dressed like a veteran or maybe a retired police officer. He had makeup on his face to change the tone of his skin, and had created a long, fake scar over his brow and nose—he was in disguise, probably scoping out the corrupted Gotham you had promised to take down together. The corruption had apparently gotten to him, as thick ribbons of blood ran down his face. His hand clutched a bullet wound in his left shoulder.

“Y/N,” Bruce babbled sluggishly, his other hand weakly searching the air for your own. Alfred is gone and Nan is no doubt with him, probably collecting medical supplies. You hate how this is the first night of a hundred, or a thousand, or a  _million_. This is going to happen again. You hate yourself for letting him sacrifice himself like this, and you hate him for thinking he has to in order to save Gotham. You hate that Bruce is right, and you hate that you have to agree with him. Swiftly, you take his hand and pull it tight to your chest, smoothing your hand down his iron and makeup smeared cheek.

“Darling, I’m here. It’s alright now, it’s going to be okay.” You tried to keep him awake, but your words seem to never reach his ears. He continues to mumble and murmur even as you assur him, head lolling back in forth against the hard leather of his favorite chair—once his father’s favorite chair, too. Then, his expression fixes and you finally see his eyes in the bare darkness. In the reflection of his pupils sits that bat, still solitary on the table.

“The bat,” Bruce slurs in his pain, ”I know how we do it, Y/N.  _I know how we make them scared_.”

“What?” You asked.

“It’s the  _bat_ ,” Bruce repeated, sitting up sharply and clutching your hands. You both look at the creature in the same moment, and then it is flying again, gone and disappearing into the storm it was once terrified of. You hear Bruce’s voice, losing its clarity and sinking back into the sweet slur of pain, ” _The Bat_.”

_

You pace the length of the platform, back and forth, back and forth, until the activity becomes familiar and you can adjust to the cave’s cold and the bats and the just the cave in general. The computer spills ghostly blue light onto your side, framing one half of your face in light and the other half in shadow. But the illusion of distraction is broken when a motor’s growl thunders down the tunnels. Some bats shriek when the vehicle whirls into the cavern and others go flying when you leap down the stairs and sprint toward the sleek black car.

Bruce pulls himself out as the car’s mechanics hiss, pulling back the roof and the armor so he can leave it. His teeth are grit as he rolls his shoulders, and you were right when saying that the aftermath of Bruce’s night in the Narrows wouldn’t be the first. But at the very least, he is not bleeding this time.

“Lucky,” Bruce shook his head at himself, "I was  _lucky_. A lucky amatuer.”

You don’t know what to do. You had yet to set up the coms system yet, and the computer hadn’t been wired to the car yet, but he still wanted to go out even if you couldn’t be watching from the sidelines. It was almost worse than his time training. But now this time it was so  _real_ , now this time you knew he was in Gotham, and that your entire world could fall apart only a couple miles away. So the moment Bruce has righted himself in the middle of the parking platform, you let the sob bubbling in your throat burst and throw yourself at him.

“I was so worried,” You shook against him, angry with yourself for crying uselessly, but indulging yourself in the release regardless, ”The bond—the bond—I could… I could  _feel_ you, but it felt different. You were hurt and I couldn’t do anything, and I was just making it worse by worrying, I’m sorry—”

Bruce pulls off the cowl. It doesn’t feel like it’s him when he wears it, even if this was his first night out. “He” doesn’t have a name, and you doubt he will until the papers catch word of him, and you can’t wait for that day because the eyes staring at you through the cowl  _are not_ Bruce’s eyes. You hate calling “him” Bruce. Bruce’s eyes are blue, icy, and seem transparent in the light of that damn computer. But  _his_ are lifeless and unmoving, staring with an anger you can’t explain.

It’s like he’s been preparing for this, for the way he guides your hands to the barely-there stubble on his face is practiced, and the way he pulls off his gloves and tosses them aside is too, laying his bare palms on your waist and meeting your paired eyes with his an art. And then he kisses you. It is brief, it is loving, but it is all action as Bruce has always been. When he pulls away he whispers two words that you know are both a horrible truth and a beautiful lie. It’s horrible because he  _shouldn’t_ be fine. He should be angry, he should be scared, but he’s fine. It’s a lie because you know this isn’t going to be the last time he’s injured, minorly or majorly.

“I’m fine.”

_

You swear, up and down, that Gotham is cursed. Maybe it was because the whole city was built atop a haunted swamp, or maybe it’s not cursed at all. Bruce certainly seems to think so. Dick and Jason joke, but you know this city is the same with both of them. Barbara is the one who makes it clear to you that Gotham isn’t cursed. It’s  _living_ , and it happens to be a very dramatic, theatrical, and symbolic being.

You see, Gotham has a way of making stories too brilliant to be forgotten. These stories always begin and end with caped heroes, and the city’s breath coaxes their capes to flutter, it’s hands slice white-hot marks of lightning into the sky with perfect timing and accuracy, and happen to supply a plethora of unnecessary gargoyles. Now, as your family is a family of heroes, Gotham is going to tailor and slave over their stories as they are its magnum opus. And for Bruce’s story, this may well be one of its most important scenes.

“You’ve been here through everything. You’ve been here for my beginning. You  _were_ my beginning,” Bruce—no,  _Batman_  said. You’ve gotten used to his name. It is still unnerving to see those eyes instead of Bruce’s, but being now a common occurrence in your life makes seeing Bruce’s eyes all that more special. The pair you helped match. The part of you that you returned to him.

You’re too smart not to know where this is going. Still, you find yourself smiling so hard your cheeks are hurting. Gotham’s fog may be chilling you, it’s breeze may be whispering into your ear, and the darkness of its skies may be shadowing you, but nothing could take from this moment. The smile on his lips quirks as he finds his way through the connection, your elation seeping through strong enough where the hinges on that door strain with the weight. But it is a good strain this time, like a muscle repairing itself after a workout, growing stronger as the both of you and your relationship have over those years.

Now he’s getting those flashes of memory from your mind. Your reflection in the tiles, blood rolling down your cheeks like tears, and then looking into that mirror and seeing a matching set of irises for the first time; Bruce’s own face, shadowed in the moonlight as his finger circles your belly button and his lips form words he can’t hear. He seems too pretty, his motions seem too sweet, and your interpretation of him in comparison to how he actually is takes his breath away. Did you really think he was so charming, so kind, so loving? Bruce wondered if you were different from how he saw you, but immediately denied such a thing. You were too beautiful to not be so real; your first kiss, an awkward and childish thing shared under the cover of night and dancing city lights.

“And I want you to… I want you to be my end, too.” Batman said.

You raised a playful eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest and staring up at the Batman with teasing eyes, "…You want me to kill you?”

“No,” Batman said with a frown, which lightened when you began to laugh into the back of your hand. ”You know what I mean, Y/N.”

“And what if I don’t?” You asked, that mirth still tinkling like a bell in your voice. Taking a step towards him, you rested your hands on either side of the bat on his chest, feeling the sweeping slopes of its wings as the black metal glistened. Bruce watches your eyes trace it’s shape as your fingers did, how that matching pair concentrated, how your pupils dilated and contracted with the clouds and his cowl reflected in them.

“You can almost read my mind. I’m sure you understand how I feel, darling.” Batman said. It felt wrong hearing the term of affection from  _him_ instead of Bruce, but it was too sweet to ruin. Well, almost…

“Fine. Bruce Wayne…” You pushed off him and crossed your arms, patiently staring up at that mask. You smiled, ”If you’re going to ask me to marry you, then take off the cowl.”

He doesn’t hesitate. You know that you’re just on a rooftop right now, and that anyone can see, and that Nightwing and Robin are probably listening in on you, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re talking to Bruce Wayne now, and the helmet you detest is now rolling somewhere to your left. What matters is that Bruce is pulling out a ring.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask earlier.” He whispered as your bodies neared.

“Oh, Bruce,” you shake your head at him, ”All I’ve done is wait for you. It’s my job.”

“I don’t want you to think you’re stuck behind me. This—” Bruce pulled open the small velvet case from his utility belt, unveiling a ring that makes your eyes water. You already felt unworthy  _seeing_ it. But wearing it for the rest of your life? That was… That’s  _Martha Wayne’s_ wedding ring, and you just know that Bruce has Thomas’ on him somewhere waiting for your answer, because there’s no way you’d say no to him. You couldn’t. The bond wouldn’t allow it, the world wouldn’t allow it,  _you_ wouldn’t allow it. ”—is me pulling you to be at my side, where you should be. Where I want you to be. You’re my  _equal_.”

Bruce pulls off his gloves and tosses them aside. Then, one bare hand rises to lay against your cheek. You press his coarse skin deeper into your own with your palm and try to resist more tears.”You know I can’t wear that ring, Bruce.”

“Her will. She wanted you to. They wanted us to.” He argues, already slipping it onto your finger.

“I love you,” You whispered, clutching the ring to your chest and then slamming yourself into his.

Bruce didn’t hesitate to keep you there, and you feel Thomas’ ring warm the skin on your neck as Bruce cups it protectively. His lips press onto your hair and linger there for a breath, just long enough for you to  _feel_ instead of seeing or hearing what he’s saying, ”I love you too.”


	8. He's Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day, Bruce Wayne

You adjusted your mirror as you pulled out of the Kent’s driveway. In it, you could see the Kents, both with an arm wrapped around their son’s shoulders and keeping his lithe frame between them. The boy, Jonathan Kent, frantically waved at your departing car. You couldn’t help but smile when Damian rolled down his window and waved back. It had been just a little over a year ago that your son was angry and friendless, but you were elated to say that Jon had changed Damian. He was a wonderful influence. At least there was that pleasant thought to keep in mind.

The country is beautiful. Especially when the sun is just setting, sinking into the horizon line like the fat head of a flower bud ready to bloom by dawn. The sky out here always made you think back to the sunset Damian painted for your latest birthday. He and Bruce had been on a long mission, and during that duration of time, Bruce must have said something to inspire Damian to race into his art room the moment they got home. A couple hours later, he came out of his little cave covered in shades of yellow and orange and blue, proudly displaying a masterpiece of a sunset. But that’s not what he called it. Quite poetically, he had said,” _It’s the time between dusk and evening, just when the sun is dipping into the horizon but has not quite fully sunk. That time of day has yet to earn a proper name. So I, Damian Wayne, now formally deem the few minutes between dinner and sunset, ”Y/N’s time”.”_

Right now, it is Y/N’s time. It’s the few precious minutes where the sky looks exactly like Damian’s canvas, a blur of colors blended to perfection, like mixing blue, orange, and yellow Cool-Aid on a cool summer evening. It’s all painted behind the rows of wheat and fields of corn, played like a wind instrument by the breeze. No wonder Damian likes coming down here so much.

“See you soon, batboy!” Jon hollers playfully, sticking out his tongue.

Damian’s torso is halfway out the window when he exclaims, ”I hate you, corncob!” He sticks out his tongue in return.

Now that you’ve driven further, Jon cups his hands around his mouth and finishes their sacred saying. It’s almost like a hug goodbye or Damian’s version of a secret handshake. Jon thoroughly enjoys it, and by the look on Lois and Clark’s faces, they’re thinking the same thing you’ve been thinking for months; they’re best friends, and that’s going to stay a fact for forever.

Jon shouts in parting, ”Happy to hear it!”

Damian ducks back into the car’s backseat when the little farmhouse disappears in the cloud of dust your car makes. His hair is all windblown and wild, but what amazes you more is that so are his  _eyes_. The Kents are renowned for putting wonder and awe in people’s eyes; you suspect it’s some lesson Jon has taught him or someplace he’s shown him. But whatever it is, Damian is happy, and that’s all you’ve wanted since you met him. He may be Talia Al Ghul’s son, but he’s  _your_ boy.

“You had fun, baby?” You asked, mentally preparing yourself for the ride back to Jersey. You almost considered just taking the jet down here, but Damian likes car rides more. You like car rides more.

“I suppose so, mom,” Damian said, slouching back into his seat. His eyes and his limbs are all heavy, but for the first time it’s because he’s been running around and having fun instead of handling a world crisis.

“That’s great. Now, why don’t you rest up, okay? We gotta long drive ahead of us, and I have to stop at W.E. before we go back to the manor.” You smile at him before you take a turn down another empty road, the dust kicking up behind you.

“Yes,” Damian said. You were surprised to see him listen so obediently, as with your wishes he immediately settles into something akin to a sleeping position. Before the car settles into silence, he flashes a smirk and cracks open an eye, ”Awaken me if you begin to fall asleep at the wheel. I could take over for you.”

“In your dreams, kid,” You shot back, smile widening to a tired grin when something akin to the same kindles on Damian’s face.

“Also…” Damian murmured, wrapping his arms around himself and folding up his legs on the seat. He must really be tired, as his head’s already bobbing lazily in a sleepy-haze. His brows furrowed in a knot of annoyance at his own hesitance, before it untangles and relaxed with the rest of his expression, ”I… I wish you a pleasant early Valentine’s Day.”

Jon must have told him. You can  _hear_ that conversation and how it played out in your mind, Jon’s Kent-inspired faith in the Holiday, and Damian’s protests that it was created by a company to increase sales in cards and candy. Either Jon had either gotten to him (doubtful), or Damian considered your situation and avoided the hardship of all of it. You breathed out what you hoped was a thankful sigh. You knew it was more forlorn than you’d hoped,”Thank you, Damian.”

The ride from then on is a blur. Corn stalks turn into hills, hills turn into small towns, and then back to corn stalks. Bruce is still on your mind.  _When is he not?_ You ask yourself, and the thought almost produces a bitter chuckle.

It was funny to think that Bruce believed in the love of Valentine’s Day more than you did, but you remember how Martha made a tradition out of getting Thomas, Bruce, and Alfred something. He is always adamant that you keep up Wayne family traditions.

“ _My mother always said that it isn’t just about romantic love,_ ” you remember Bruce telling Dick, sliding a hearty box of chocolates across his desk and toward the astounded ten-year-old, ” _It can be about the love or appreciation you have for your family, your friends, or even your pets and coworkers. And we’re family, so I want you to have this._ ”

He’d always get the boys something each year, like chocolates or an item of value. Regardless of where Jason was, even if in the very depths of the Earth and once off-world, he’d made sure something always got to him (along with the ever-standing reminder of his old bed back at the Manor). He managed to go all out every single year, without fail. Like the time Stephanie had a harsh break-up around the holiday and awoke to her room  _covered_ with flowers. Holidays were always an outlet to give gifts, and that had to be Bruce’s secret superpower; he did know everything about everyone. That includes you.

Ever since you were in Kindergarten, creating Valentines for everyone in your class, Bruce had managed to slip you something. You hadn’t really been friends until around middle school, and by that time the tradition of creating class-wide Valentines had been abandoned. But still, he got you something.

Each and every year you would ask him as you’d hold the too-extravagant gift just a little too close to your heart,” _Bruce, you know we don’t do Valentines in the whole class anymore, right?_ ”

He’d only smile mysteriously, ” _Who said I gave anyone else anything?_ ” Then with a polite nod of his head, he’d be striding off, always moving, always leaving, bidding in parting, ” _Happy Valentines Day, Mrs. L/N._ ”

The innocent little notes of goodwill sprouted into compliments, which in turn grew into promises, and blossomed into love letters and confessions of adoration. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t kept every single one, locked away in some box you think Bruce didn’t know about even if he did.

Maybe he’d known. The bastard always knew. He’d been waiting for the day when the, ” _Happy Valentine’s Day, Ms. L/N._ ” became, ” _Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Wayne._ ”

One of those days was supposed to be tomorrow. The 14th of February of your sixth year of marriage.  _Has it really been so long?_ You ask yourself, as it still feels like you’re in the honeymoon stage, which makes you think of your honeymoon, which makes you think of the flowers and the rings and the promises and the fact that he  _isn’t here_.

 _Missing in action_ , Hal said, without a hint of a joke in his voice. It returns, but like the dying light of a dying fire, knowing that something is wrong but always still fighting for light.  _But he’s Batman! Batman doesn’t go missing in action, Y/N. He’s just doing that thing where he disappears for a little while, then resurfaces a couple days later—it’s just taking longer. Bats is okay._ His jokes are harder to smile at.

 _He’s coming back_ , Clark promises, trying to inspire hope in the vacant space torn in your family with Bruce missing.  _The League’s still looking for him. And if they can’t find him, he’d climb his way out of hell to get back to you. He’s coming home._ For once, his speech doesn’t inspire you.

 _Do not worry,_ Diana urges, even as she worries herself.  _Your husband is strong. He will do anything to return to you and your children. And the League will help him return_.

Bruce has been gone for a month. Left after a large Justice League battle, or taken, or whatever happened. All that matters is that it has been a month since you’ve seen Bruce in person. The League is looking. The world is waiting. Your  _family_ is waiting.  _You,_ as everyone knows, are still waiting.

This absence is nothing like his long nights in the Batcave. Then, you knew he was home, and maybe it stung because his arm wasn’t around your waist and his scent didn’t fill your nose. But at least then you knew he was  _home_. You could walk down the stairs and he would be there, and he would be silent, angry, and  _working_ , but he would be home. My god, do you want him  _home_.

If he had some sort of plan he would tell you, wouldn’t he? Or maybe it involved you. Maybe he needed you to not know where he was, maybe there was a threat of some kind… You would do anything right now for any kind of reassurance, but then it comes you push it away with meaningless theories. It’s no use. Bruce is gone.

Is he coming back? You see this question in your family’s eyes each morning, in Damian’s eyes so filled with awe. For once Mrs. Wayne, the one with every answer, has none at all. Bruce is gone.

Where is he? You ask the Justice League each day. Diana bows her head, Clark’s gaze turns heavy, and Bruce is not there to give answers. Bruce is gone.

Do you remember? You ask yourself, and the answer is always the same; yes, because there are colors in his eyes without name, so divine and ethereal, weighed by the world and all the sins that he should not have to bare; yes, because he’s always been so caring behind the walls he raises, they just don’t know where to find the door; yes, because you love him, and you’ll always remember you do; yes, because Bruce Wayne is gone and you are fated and cursed to remember. Bruce is gone.

Do you  _want_ to remember? You whisper into the sheets he once resided in, the sheets still inlaid with the warm cologne printed in all the places he once was. A part of you wants to say no. Because when you remember, it  _hurts_. It stings and it aches and it sinks its teeth in deep enough to draw blood. But you will always say yes—because who could forget the moments where his knuckles caressed your cheek, where thoughts and theories and the deepest of secrets flew like moonlight between two minds awake at too early an hour? You couldn’t. It’s your curse. It’s your burden to hurt when you remember, and you have to remember. Because Bruce is gone.

When the rain returns, you know you are home in Gotham City. It weeps against every angle of your car—Bruce’s car—and paints its marks down your windows, flowing from smooth currents to a roaring rapid around arrays of knife-like rocks. His name—your name—is born in blue neon against the wailing stormclouds. The lights become brighter and white and blinding, shining against dry cars that hide in the underground parking, sparse between rows of empty pavement instead of prospering land. Well-printed white paint tells you,  _Reserved: Bruce Wayne, CEO_.

Damian’s handle is slippery. You pull open the door to discover him asleep, bunched up into himself, all balled and defensive even in sleep. As you unbuckle his seatbelt and card your fingers through the gel now matting his hair, the Clocktower thrums in the distance. Even underground you hear it’s familiar chime, the one imprinted so deeply in your mind you can never call it to memory. You wonder if it ever startles Barbara from how loud it must be, as she works in the Clock Tower. You wonder if Bruce hears it in his dreams, a white noise that has filtered so easily through your childhood and now your adulthood.  _One_ , it tells you.

As soon as your thumb brushes Damian’s cheek, he is awake. The eyes he got from Talia startle you in the darkness of the backseat. But… no… they’re not so  _jagged_ , not cut straight from the Earth as hers are. His are softened by Bruce, hiding somewhere within him, and the familiarity in their shape and color revive you. You smile.

“Mom…?” Damian questioned blearily, stretching.

“We just have to stop in real quick, but I need you to come up with me,” You reminded. He grabs his phone and shuts the car door, sluggish and sleepy and so cute you just want to squish his face endlessly, even if it’d probably be the last thing you’d do. Bruce may be gone, but Damian is holding your hand and leaning tiredly into your side as you ride the elevator up to his office, and that is a simple comfort. But sometimes a simple comfort is all you need. The slow workings of the elevator become the murmur of a car engine.

_A kiss finds your hairline, soft and quick and exhausted. You press your smile into his cheek and let your eyes flutter shut with a sigh, the camera’s flash only a memory, and the boy in your arms fast asleep. Seeing Dick like this make him seem so boyish, and for a moment you question if this is how Bruce see’s him at all times—it would certainly account for his hesitance toward Dick’s training. But tonight had taught you one thing; Dick was the best when it came to galas._

_Bruce was Gotham’s golden boy, but right now Gotham’s golden boy is sighing in relief of his escape from Gotham. You are famous for your need for seclusion in public. But at every swoop, Dick was there to work the customer or seal a deal with his perfect smile and heart-breaking words. You are in awe of him, but maybe that’s not because he’s Dick Grayson, but because he’s becoming your son. Maybe it’s both._

_“Tired?” Bruce inquires. When you only release a grunt, he smiles, something relaxed and dizzy with affection, something you have not seen in a forever. He keeps doing that odd little thing where he just stares. Like if he looks away you and Dick are just going to disappear. Like he’s lucky to be looking at you. Like he’s lucky you’re here at all._

_“He did so well,” you stared down at Dick, brushing your fingers through his hair, shifting to make sure he was comfortable between your bodies in the backseat. "He’s such a little charmer. And to think he was all worried earlier. Wish I could just socialize like that—naturally, where everybody’s smiling.”_

_“You and me both,” Bruce agreed, which made you snicker. Then, he looked down at Dick with that dizzying, happy look on his face. ”I’m proud of him.”_

“I just have to get some papers for Tim and I from his office,” you said, slipping your I.D across the elevator’s scanner. It beeped twice and flashed green, before the doors slid open with a silent hiss. Bruce’s secretary was absent, which the security in the lobby had told you upon your arrival, and confirmed that everything was running smoothly with Mr. Wayne on his trip.

“May I get something from the vending the machine in the cafe?” Damian requested.

You pulled out your wallet and pushed a couple of singles into his hand, kissing his forehead before sending him off. Just as you pushed open the office door, the elevator doors whirred shut behind you. Maybe it’s good they did.

It’s stupid. It really is stupid, because you’re supposed to  _remember_ , and yet every year you always forget this. Before you came home from work, after he came home from work, somewhere before your night started with there was always this. It was tradition. Not a Martha and Thomas Wayne tradition, but a Bruce and Y/N Wayne tradition, the kind forged during a period of unconditional affection which had never truly died. You forget, but you’re supposed to remember. Bruce’s gone. But dammit, he’s always finding you, always saving you, isn’t he?

On Bruce’s desk, as if he knew he’d be here, as if he knows because he  _always knows_ , is a bouquet. It isn’t much. Just your favorites, tied up and pre-ordered in advance at least a decade ago, so if something like this—Bruce’s absence—ever occurred, you’d always get something every year. Every Valentine’s Day you forget. Every Valentine’s Day a bouquet of [favorite flowers] seems to find you. Every Valentine’s Day there’s a letter tucked between the buds, handwritten in advance by his hand with his pen. Every single year, without fail.

You have no idea just how many years he’s paid in advance for. You don’t know who delivers them. You don’t know how he finds the time to write the letters—ten so far, and all of them have arrived, all different and all handwritten—or how many letters he’s written for the future. You just know there’s a letter in the bunch and that it is addressed to you.

Your hands are shaking when you get the letter opener on his desk. He always used the hard, fancy envelopes that are impossible to open by hand, sealed shut by the elegant  _W_ you’d seen everywhere and on everything. It’s impossibly easy to fall into the carpet before his desk, to pull your legs against your body and hide from the world, temple pressed against the heavy wood.

Of course, Bruce has to own the fanciest letter-opening possible; a little golden sword, engraved and beautiful and probably passed down from Wayne to Wayne. You tear open the letter, and—curse your stuttering hands—nick yourself on your thumb. There are tears blurring your vision, there is blood dripping from your thumb, but nothing matters because suddenly it feels like Bruce is there again. You can hear his voice. You can feel his touch, nursing over the stupid cut and being paranoid over a hesitated breath. Bruce is gone, but perhaps not with this letter.

_Y/N,_

_As I’m writing this, I realize I’m an idiot. You’ve assured me of that enough times, but this time I can admit it. I know I left for training. I know I left you behind, I know you hate me for it, and I know how much I’m sacrificing. I should be home, in Gotham, going to school with you and growing with you. But instead, I’m hiding from thieves in Egypt in the underbelly of hell, and you’re sending me photos of you from_ _prom_.  _You look so beautiful. I’m a horrible poet (which I’m sure you know, looking back at all those horrendous love poems I wrote you in grade school), but at times like these, I wish I was, so I could accurately describe just how beautiful you are to me. I should have been there, and I should have danced with you. Do you still like those Tchaikovsky pieces my mother used to play? We would have danced to those. That is why I’m an idiot._

_I don’t know when I’m sending this one. It could be years after prom. It could be next year. All I know is that I hope I can be there when you read one of these, so you can correct me on all my horribly inaccurate literature references I make to impress you. Do you remember that, Y/N? When we were just children making forts in my father’s library, shoving and elbowing for room so we could both see the pages of the books you love so much? Once I get back, I’m going to get you a book. Any book you want. No, forget that. I’ll get you a whole goddamn library._

_It’s odd to think about our situation if you step away from it all. I am the son of Gotham’s best, playing a fool’s game in foreign countries on some idiotic crusade to save my city. Our city. You are… an anomaly. You don’t belong here, or there, but at the same time you go wherever you please. You are who you want to be, regardless of who your parents are, regardless of the way your past binds you. You are you. I am me. We are such different people. I’m halfway across the world, dreaming of a possible impossibility, and you are on the other side of the Earth, probably watching a movie or calling your friends. I’m glad that out of anyone, it was us._

_Perhaps I should get into the actual Valentine’s talk, as you should be receiving this on Valentine’s Day. My family has always considered it about more than just romantic love, but familial or love for friends as well. I hope that—this may be embarrassing if we have not reached this stage yet—we have passed this tradition onto our children, if you are now known as Mrs. Wayne. You’ll probably hyphenate._

_I hope that you get the scholarship you are striving for. (I know you’ll get it regardless, but just in case). I hope your family is well. I hope you understand how much I miss you, and just how toxic it is for me to do so. You deserve better than me, Y/N. You deserve the whole world. But still, I hope I can be the one to give it to you. I’ll start with that library. Then this brutal cycle can continue on. I also hope, on a better note, that you punch that Zeke boy straight in the teeth the next time he bothers you. For me? I hope for his sake he realizes you have a boyfriend, and a very powerful backhand. (I have evidence to support that—my jaw still hurts sometimes. Don’t you remember when you slapped me sophomore year? You still frown and apologize, but I still strongly believe I deserved it. I’m more than happy to know you can handle yourself, even if I would prefer to protect you.)_

_I hope that when I return, you are there, and that you are the brilliant, caring young woman I have come to love. Yes. Romantically. Stop the press, for billionaire, playboy Bruce Wayne is in love. Maybe that’s why I’m an idiot. Alfred has said I am “stupid in love”, but you can excuse my sudden emotional incline as deliriousness caused by lack of sleep._

_Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,_

_Yours always, Bruce Wayne_.

“You idiot,” You whispered. You’re unsure if you’re talking to yourself or not, but there’s no one else to hear you here. The grin carved into your features is beginning to ache, worsened by the salty sting of your tears, rolling down your face in fresh and unrelenting waves. Maybe it’s joy. Maybe it’s sadness. Maybe it’s  _both_ , because the ache lies in both your grin and your heart. Whatever it is, it helps you stand. Maybe it’s time you get those papers.

With unsteady hands, you folded up the letter and returned it to it’s torn envelope. It’s then that a tingle curls at the top of your spine, in a bad way, telling you something’s wrong.  _Screaming_ at you to turn around. You catch the reflection on Bruce’s monitor and whirl around at light speed, your fist inches from their face, caught only by reflex.

Update: Bruce is not gone.

“Oh, you  _asshole!_ ” You cried, springing off the floor and engulfing him in a bone-crushing embrace.

Bruce Wayne wraps returns it as much as an injured man can. His Batsuit is utterly destroyed, a couple of bullets broken through the main chest plate, clawed apart and gnarling apart the metal. His cowl’s nearly been torn off, but you don’t mind at all, because he’s back, and he’s real, and he’s  _right here_.

His lips eagerly attach to your own, starving for air and touch and affection. The material of his gloves is hot against each side of your face and suddenly his eyes are there, mellowed to that tender shade of melting ice blue.

“I get that a lot,” Bruce said, breathless. Then his mind was off again, racing, running a mile a minute, ”Ivy caught me off guard in Robinson Park. She and the Entrantress had partnered in order to manipulate me into helping them conquer another planet. I stopped them and forced Enchantress to take me home. Just had them delivered to Arkham. Where is everyone? Are they safe?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You said slowly, try to comprehend everything he’d just thrown at you. You watched his eyes dart around the room, from the moon outside, to the letter, to the tears in your face. He paused, thumb brushing another tear away. ”You’re crying. How long have I been gone?”

“Little over a month,” You confessed shortly. Before he could get into apologizing or anything of the sort, you shook your head, ”It’s fine. It wasn’t your fault.”

He nodded to the flowers, ”Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” You returned quietly, still unsure of letting him go. ”I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

Bruce looked to the sky as a flash of light suddenly illuminated the sides of your faces, amber and gold fractals shimmering under the texture of the window’s glass. You follow the long line of light to the clouds. Slicing through the rain, that unwavering, unconditionally surviving, was the Batsignal. Bruce’s expression fixed, and with a sigh, you released him knowing full well that he had to go.

“Never apologize for such a thing, Mrs. Wayne,” Bruce said, sounding too pleased the title. He knows. Of course he knows, because after he brings your knuckles to his lips, after he promises his return with his eyes, he smiles and slips one of the flowers into your hand, ”You’re better than anything I could ask for.” He gestured to the papers on the desk, a mysterious smile in his eyes, ”Even a library.”

Hesitantly, you looked down at the paper atop the pile. You have to cover your mouth to suppress that damned giddy smile he always finds a way to arouse in you, and whisper the plans title out loud to yourself;  _The Y/N Wayne Public Library_.

“Bruce—” You start, because  _damn him_ , damn him and his promises, damn him and his beautiful eyes and mind. Damn him, damn it all. Because when you turn around, Bruce Wayne is gone. But this time, you know where he’s run off too. To save the world, because that’s exactly what the boy you fell in love with would do.

“I hate it when you do that.” You smiled to yourself.


	9. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "last night i was obsessing over the scene in justice league where batman sings “am i blue” to save diana and diana knows. can i request the s/o sings that song at an open mic concert bar place and bruce watches and just falls in love with her (and then years later that’s when he sings the song to save diana)"

Applause echoes around them, whistles whipping up into the air like sparks of pure electricity, the world a burst of lavender light in celebration of Bruce’s lasting performance. Zatanna’s staring up at him like she’s finally seeing him, and the tear-stained handkerchief in her hand almost makes things funnier: it’s not Bruce that she’s seeing for the first time.

He’s not surprised that she had cried, either. Bruce felt like crying too.

“Remember when Penguin tried to kidnap that singer?” Bruce asked, smoothing out the cover story in his head. He checks it off the list as if falls from his mouth: referencing information she knows is true, swirling the lies with the truth…

Zatanna hummed. “Ricky what’s-his-name? So?” 

“I spent a month on stakeout,” he said, glancing to the side, “Must have heard that song a hundred times.”

Another hum, and not a good one. He’s known Zatanna long enough to understand that she does the impossible—specifically the impossible task of knowing when Bruce is lying and what he’s lying about. She pauses, considers granting him mercy… But she’s not nearly the type.

“The lounge singer. The one you were engaged to,” Zatanna murmurs, after a beat of staring into the blank eyes of his mask. “…They’d sing that to you, didn’t they?”

Bruce said nothing. He  _wanted_ to say nothing, but Zatanna had risked a great deal that night to help him restore Diana to her normal self. So he risked a small, “Yes.”

Temporarily starry-eyed, Zatanna tilted back her head and closed her eyes at the heavens. Perhaps it was magic. Perhaps it was just empathy. But she reached down and touched his wrist, promising, “They’re happy. They want you to be, too.”

This was the part of the mission where they assured that Diana was safe. This was the part of the mission where Bruce began to focus on the present, on the task at hand, but he simply couldn’t. Not when it came to them. 

With the phantom touch of a tablecloth under his arms and the soft beat of a familiar song, Bruce felt himself glance toward center-stage to face the figure haloed in the spotlight. Their hand extended to him. They wore that dazzling smile only the two of them would share, even if they were on stage and Bruce was just another face in the crowd. He already knew the touch: warm and familiar, stark against the icy midnight he had grown accustomed. He already knew the voice, too.

But it was gone. So Bruce pressed on, for the mission. Blue.


End file.
